Archive for October, 2011|Monthly archive page

The girl who calls herself Ripley, just Ripley, is soaring over the skies of southwestern France. Being cobbled together from the bodies of a thousand different victims did have some perks, and flying was one of the best.

She has a lead on a place where she can hit them hardest, a joint facility where the black-suited men of five worlds were building something at the behest of their Nolas, their Pierces. And whoever was leading them. She’d know that piece of the puzzle once she finished her assault.

I hit the bricks shortly after that. I make a few jumps, and then I start walking, to help my mind work through my next course of action. But even though I know I should be thinking about retrieving Ripley, my mind keeps turning to M2.

I can’t believe the way she sees the world. We’re a multitude of twins, and while we look the same to outsiders, we are all unique. Why can’t she see that?

Doc purses her lips. “She may have flipped out a bit, but her heart’s always been in the right place. She really cares about you, you know.”

“She sure has a funny way of showing it,” I retort.

“Look,” says Doc, “I’m not the one you need to be having this conversation with, but I will say this. Everything she’s ever done has been to keep you safe from harm. And that’s not the worst kind of friend you could have. I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said.”

“Margery, they made her in a lab. She’s not like us. And the longer she stuck around, the more likely it was that she was gonna go off. She was made by the enemy. Can’t you see that?”

“Well guess what? You and Doc might have cured me, but you can’t keep me from going back there. I’m going to track her down. It’s my fault she left, and if anything bad happens to her, it’s all on my head.”

“I really wish Ripley hadn’t run off like that,” she sighs. “Doc wasn’t sure exactly where to start, but she’s one smart cookie. She found evidence of a chemical neurotransmitter in your brain, and she figured it was to blame. She tried a couple of different cocktails, and eventually she found one that worked to deprogram you. She figures they used the chemical in concert with some psychological treatment, but with the chemical neutralized, you should be free and clear.”

The nausea is unbearable. I know there’s nothing left for me to vomit up, but my throat feels like it’s filled with hot garbage.

The straps are close, so very close, to being loose enough. I can almost wriggle my left wrist out of the restraint, but my legs are still strapped in tight. All I need is to get one arm free, and I can make a break for it.

But my stomach feels so foul, I can hardly move without feeling like I want to die.

Her time in the good hospital had been life-altering. Ripley had never known about movies, and had watched everything she could get her hands on. When she exhausted the English-language films, she moved on to Japanese cinema. And it was there that she encountered the term yandere.

It’s used to describe a person who is initially very loving and gentle to someone before their devotion ultimately turns destructive.

She felt like an avenging angel, a cool stiletto of revenge. They had never been kind to her, but it was their cruelty to Margery that must be redressed.